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Title: Through The Fog
Author: Joseph Crosby Lincoln [
More Titles by Lincoln]
The fog was so thick yer could cut it
'Thout reachin' a foot over-side,
The dory she'd nose up ter butt it,
And then git discouraged an' slide;
No noise but the thole-pins a-squeakin',
Or, maybe, the swash of a wave,
No feller ter cheer yer by speakin'--
'Twas lonesomer, lots, than the grave.
I set there an' thought of my trouble,
I thought how I'd worked fer the cash
That bust and went up like a bubble
The day that the bank went ter smash.
I thought how the fishin' was failin',
How little this season I'd made,
I thought of the child that was ailin',
I thought of the bills ter be paid.
"And," says I, "All my life I've been fightin'
Through oceans of nothin' but fog;
And never no harbor a-sightin'--
Jest driftin' around like a log;
No matter how sharp I'm a-spyin',
I never see nothin' ahead:
I'm sick and disgusted with tryin'--
I jest wish ter God I was dead."
It wa'n't more'n a minute, I'm certain,
The words was jest out er my mouth,
When up went the fog, like a curtain,
And "puff" came the breeze from the south;
And 'bout a mile off, by rough guessin',
I see my own shanty on shore,
And Mary, my wife and my blessin',
God keep her, she stood in the door.
And I says ter myself, "I'm a darlin';
A chap with a woman like that,
To set here a-grumblin' and snarlin',
As sour as a sulky young brat--
I'd better jest keep my helm steady,
And not mind the fog that's adrift,
For when the Lord gits good and ready,
I reckon it's certain ter lift."
[The end]
Joseph Crosby Lincoln's poem: Through The Fog
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